Snatched , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - M. Sindall David

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95 pages

English

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Description

Welcome to Snatched. Welcome to the world of Kieran. Officially, Kieran runs a high end ticket agency. Unofficially, his job is to steal children to order so that wealthy oligarchs can complete their family and have the son or daughter they have never been able to have. Unknown to him, Chiswick-born Thomas is set to become the latest victim as he holidays with his family on the Algarve. Written from the perspective of a character who sees it only as his job, David provides an thought-provoking insight into a world morally incomprehensible to most people. Comparable to works by Iain Banks, Snatched explores what happens when one snatch goes wrong. This book is an exciting and fast-paced novel that will appeal to fans of thrillers.

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	29 octobre 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781785897818
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Copyright © 2016 David M. Sindall

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events
and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador
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ISBN 9781785897818

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

‘One is not called noble who harms living beings. By not harming living beings one is called noble.’
The Buddha
Contents
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Final Part

Part One

Kieran
Berlin
April 17th
15:40
Many people would probably despise what I do for a living. I don’t care. No job is morally neutral. Priests absolve people of disgusting things; nurses take part in abortions; firefighters call in sick. People ignore all of that shit so they can feel better about their own lives. Think about what you do each day and ask yourself, do you really make a living in such a pure way? I’m pretty sure that when you think about it, there’s a deal you know about that you want to keep quiet, something you would rather not mention over a beer with your buddies. The guy who got fired who you didn’t stand up for, the expenses claim that was a bit iffy, the elected official who is suspect, but you keep quiet about. I know that you know. You just don’t want to be honest with yourself.
I can sleep soundly at night and I make good money. I pay all my taxes; I even vote for progressive parties of the centre left. Last year I gave over 200K to children’s charities and not as some poxy tax loophole on the advice of my accountant. I always tip well too, just as the waitress who is approaching my table knows.
She says something to me that I pretend I don’t understand.
’English,’ I say and she smiles.
‘Would you like another beer?’ she says, as the smile lingers on her face.
‘ Ja ,’ I say, ‘but you’ll have to fill in the rest for yourself because I don’t speak German.’
This is a lie, but it’s a useful lie. I speak reasonable German; it just suits my purpose that people think I am a clumsy English businessman.
‘Hey, no worries,’ she says, flashing me a perfect smile. ’I like to speak English. You here for long?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ I say. ‘I have a meeting in London tomorrow.’
‘You’ll need to get to Tegel then?’
I shake my head, showing disagreement.
‘I hate flying. Why fly when you have Deutsche Bahn?’
She looks at me, interested. I know that look. If I were staying in Berlin tonight I reckon I could meet her later, buy her dinner and end up back at her place. Another time.
She smiles. ‘Back soon with your beer, OK?’
I let her go; it is pointless flirting with her and I want time to reflect.
I look across to the Reichstag. I love the building – the shape of it and the sense of it being a phoenix rising from the ashes. A city divided is a city united. Berlin has everything. Great people, great buildings and an amazing history. What’s not to like? My clients like it here too. They can blend in, they don’t get too much attention and they can come here without raising suspicion.
In my job, blending in is important. I am never rude and never overfamiliar with people. I do nothing to draw attention to myself. You’ve got to be a bit of a prick not to blend in, so the first rule is not to do anything that makes you seem difficult, showy or memorable in anyway whatsoever. I dress business casual. Not Armani or anything flash, just Marks and Spencer. If I wear jeans they’re Levi’s; my watch is cheap – not a Rolex; my phone and my laptop are never the latest kit. I just have a way of presenting myself that says, ‘nothing memorable’.
Sometimes my clients are initially shocked. The deal I closed this morning was worth twelve million euros. I think some of the people I work for would be happier if I arrived in a Porsche and big Prada shades, looking like some movie star. If I did, I could guarantee every fucker everywhere would notice me. I don’t want to be noticed. This extends to everything else too. I have a modest house in St Albans. I have another apartment in central London, but my neighbours there think I’m an IT specialist, renting on a company let. The only luxury I afford myself is the occasional First Class ticket on Eurostar. Everything else about me is inoffensive and understated.
There is one exception – I have a place in Biarritz. A project I started about five years ago; an old, enormous château. Rooms everywhere. It is my hideaway, my refuge and the nearest I have to a real base. The chateau is so private I don’t have to worry. The one thing I like about the French – and let’s face it, with their arrogant wines, snotty waiters and useless cars there isn’t much to actually like – is that they respect your privacy, they keep their distance.
The waitress brings my beer back. In a few weeks’ time I will be drinking in Rome, meeting my client from this morning at the Champions League final. We will have good seats; it will fit with the deception of my job. Officially, I run a ticket agency where I specialise in hard-to-get sports tickets. Mostly in Europe, but sometimes, particularly if the client is North American, it might be cricket in the Caribbean or basketball in NYC. The important thing is that the deception is maintained. We’ll go through the whole charade. Go to the match together, be seen enjoying each other’s company, so that the story absolutely fits. Luckily, it’s football, so I might enjoy it. If it were rugby or, God forbid, golf, I’d be in for a tedious ‘day at the office’. Then, at the end of the match, he’ll go back to Moscow, I’ll take a train to London and life will go on. The deal isn’t due for completion until the group stages of next year’s competition. Doubtless, we will end up in the Nou Camp to sort out the final details. I look after my clients; there’ll be no complications.

If people knew what I did, I suspect they’d wonder how I got into this line of work. I wish I had a complex answer, but there isn’t much to explain. I’m the son of a London Underground ticket collector. I did a degree in Psychology and specialised in Child Psychology. Unlike all the other losers who ended up in the public sector, I wanted to make some real money. To begin with, though, I never knew how; I stumbled on this lark when I was reading the colour supplements one Sunday. The rest is history, albeit not very nice history.
Time is passing. I am twenty minutes from the Hauptbahnhof. I need to get Anna moving back in London.

Anna
Hanger Lane
London
18:00
April 17 th

So now he has called. He has told me the approximate target and I have to do the rest. I made it clear. This is my only job. I want to go back to Bielsko after this. I have had enough of England. The weather is useless, the food is tedious and the people here are ugly. That is why so many Polish people fit in here – their face fits. Eventually, like me, they come to realise home is better. Here they pay you well and that is all there is. There is nothing to like or love here, nothing about this beer-swilling nation of badly dressed people that I will miss.
Everything is expensive too. From food to sanitary wear, everything is three or four times more than it costs in Poland and the stupid people do not complain. Instead, they read their ridiculous newspapers, watch stupid soaps and get excited about cookery programmes and dancing shows on TV. I wonder how the British managed to have an empire on which the sun never set. Maybe the world was more stupid then, or maybe they just got lucky?
Tomorrow, I have to go to Chiswick. Apparently, the ‘w’ is not a ‘v’, it is silent. Stupid language. If the letter is silent, why have it? I have an interview for a job as a nanny. I have to dress like a frumpy old maid. At least I can wear some sexy underwear underneath. The family are wealthy. Maybe the husband will try it on with me. This has happened before. But this time I will not let this happen. I have to spend time concentrating on the little boy, Thomas. I have to build a relationship with him.
The agency have confirmed my appointment for an interview with the family in the afternoon. He is a doctor, she is in publishing. That is the other stupid thing about this country, there is more red tape than Poland under the Communists. Does anyone follow it? No! They should have done police checks on me, but the woman at the agency, an African woman who smiled a lot but was not competent, lied that they had done all the checks. Later, when she put the phone down, she told me that I looked trustworthy and they had never had any trouble with ‘your type’ in the past. I do not know what she meant by ‘your type’. I told her I was Slovakian, but I cou